by Inez Kelley
One delicate bloom plucked from a willowy stalk appeared before her eyes, held in a hand she longed to feel touch her once more. She took his offering with hesitant fingers.
“I know nothing about you, Myla. Well, I know you’re fierce and stronger than any man. You’re a beautiful woman or a massive cat. Strawberries and blackberries make you close your eyes in pleasure. If needed, you have and will kill to protect me.” His curious eyes searched her face for more. “But tell me about you. Do you dream, Myla? When you’re part of me, do you miss the sunshine? Are you ever apart from me without my knowing? Have you ever thought of me in any other way than a duty?”
Words locked in her throat and choked her. She existed for no reason other than to serve as his guardian. She knew everything about him yet nothing of what made him how he was. They were closer than two beings ever should be and yet separate and alone. Sadness touched her, a butterfly of rainbowed beauty drenched by a sudden rainfall. Steeling her face to hide her emotion, she cocked her head to the side.
“I do not dream within you. I accepted this duty and I stand guard. Sunshine touches your flesh and I know of its warmth through you. I am with you every minute, Taric, even if you do not behold me with your eyes.”
Something close to anger colored his face and he jumped in front of her, his chest brushing her breasts. Vehemence emanated from his body in sheets of blistering heat. No, not anger, something…close…burning…needing. “But have you ever thought about me as other than a prize to be protected?”
Myla didn’t have the ability to lie to him but strategic maneuvers could be employed. The wilting flower became a tool of distraction and she twirled it between her fingers. The spinning buttery color quivered with her fraud. “I do not allow those thoughts to linger in my mind.”
A dimple appeared above his jaw and the right side of his lip inched upward. “But you have felt…something for me other than protectiveness?”
Lips parted, she remained silent. For all the strength in her supernatural structure, she couldn’t break from his gaze. She saw herself reflected in pools of burnt umber, reminding her she belonged within him. Then the image was gone as he angled his head. His mouth pressed to hers, the burst of blackberry vivid and potent.
So this is how his kiss feels…like magic. Without thought, she mimicked his motion, tasting his lips and then allowing her tongue to touch and stroke his. Heat arced between them, a power she didn’t recognize but one that consumed her. He nibbled the lip he’d touched earlier, his fingers straying to her cheek, firm and gentle. A quiver grew from her marrow and spread, wracking her bones, and she trembled in sudden fear.
The pale yellow flower fell to the ground. Taric was her charge, her responsibility. She should not behave in this manner with him. Only the magnetic lure of his touch held her within this realm, halting her escape. He felt so…right. It was so wrong.
Taric shifted and tried to pull her closer, his arm around her waist, but she pushed away from him. “Do not. I should not have allowed that to happen. It can not happen again.”
“Why?”
The question threw her. Why? Because… She floundered, searching for why his touch should be forbidden, why she could not submit to the raging beat of her pulse, why she could not bask in the taste of his kiss. He was long past the age of manhood and could choose his own path. If he wanted a woman, he had the right to take her be she willing. Myla reluctantly admitted she was most willing to step into his kiss once more. But she was not a woman. Not really.
“I am not real, Taric. I am an enchantment, a spell designed for your protection, not your pleasure.”
Flushed color drained from his face at her breathless words.
“I bid you farewell, my charge.” She drew on every smidgeon of control not to zing back inside his mark. A tiny breath of lilac vapor swirled regretfully through the yellow blossoms before it too trickled into his body. Sorrow turned the last wisps to dark violet.
ab
“What crawled up your ass?”
Taric speared Bryton with a scorching glare but the affable man shrugged it off like a silk cloth.
“Come on, Prince Crabby, what’s wrong?”
“Bryton, don’t you have something to do besides be a pain in my ass?”
“Not at the moment, no.” Nudging his horse closer, Bryton dropped his volume. “Tar, don’t worry. We’re all well trained here. The Lutas won’t be able to—”
“I know what my men are capable of.” The venom in his voice burned his throat and Taric firmed his lip in irritation. It wasn’t Bryton or any other of his men he was angry with, it was himself. He reached for a blustery jest to ease his bodyguard. “Look, let it drop. I have enough on my mind without worrying about hurting your pansy-assed feelings. We’re coming up on Luta’s land now so be ready.”
Not the least appeased, Bryton sarcastically saluted before riding away. With a frustrated sigh, Taric twisted to watch him canter to the men. Myla with her damn sharp tongue had him spoiling for a fight just when he needed a cool head, and Bryton’s pinched ego didn’t help any.
He surveyed his men, each one wearing the royal blue of his station with the Segur family crest embroidered in silver. A bunch of warriors playing dress-up. He snorted. These troops were used to armor and mud, not woolen finery and polished boots. Swords that had gorged on blood now hung, shined to a gleam and scabbarded on fine leather belts. Even the horses had been brushed to a gloss.
We prance like dancers on a stage, costumes ready and lines rehearsed to battle a war of words.
Urging his mount faster, he sprang ahead of the half-platoon, sending shards of earth from beneath the four shod hooves. His heart banged with bruising force and the weight of his family’s ceremonial sword thudded against his hip. The echo of rumbling behind him let him know that Bryton might be peeved but was still doing his job, commanding the men to follow suit. The prince would never be allowed to get out of eyesight of the guards.
Fuck.
They should have been spotted by now and word of their rapid approach relayed to Delmas Luta. He scouted the outlay of land, looking for everything from snipers to wild animals. The green of his homeland faded here, to more brown scrub than lush beauty. Thick copses of trees and snarls of bushes lined the dirt roadway, allowing for man or beast to lie in wait for any passing traveler. Along his neck, a prickled itch grew. The forest had many eyes and not all topped four legs. They kept his mind occupied and banished all traces of Myla and her berry-sweet mouth…for a moment.
Before the incident with the barmaid, he hadn’t seen Myla in several months. Something had changed in him in those months, it must have. Why else would he suddenly look at his guardian and be seized by steel bands of lust? The manacles she’d once removed from his wrists seemed fragile in comparison to the grip of his desire for her. Any time they’d spent together was always tinged with danger or in the heart-pounding aftermath of rescue. Grateful as he was for her protection, Taric still hated that his guardian was female. If anything, she’d made him feel less of a man. It had been easier to think of her as a magic thing, like a bag of herbs, than as a woman.
Now he couldn’t think of her as anything but a woman.
Now, she made him feel every inch a man.
Why had things changed? Was it because he’d put his arms around her? Was it the way her hair had fanned along his pillow? Could it be that for the first time, their roles had been reversed and Myla needed him? Maybe it was her blood, seeing her so uncharacteristically weakened that had sparked some strange male response.
Not that getting an erection at the thought of lips like pomegranates or skin like cream was odd. No, that was normal enough. But to be mesmerized by the thought of burying himself inside a woman made of purple smoke? Yeah, I’m definitely touched in the head.
Your protection, not your pleasure.
Those words, so coldly stated, had chilled his overheated blood. She made it seem like he treated her no differently than the barma
id she’d knocked unconscious. He knew who she was, what she was—as much as he could understand it. How could she think he would treat her so arrogantly?
Snorting in sardonic realization, Taric slowed to a trot, allowing the men to cluster around him. No, she hadn’t shied from him, she’d shied from herself. Myla had kissed him back.
The memory of her timid tongue’s caress had an instant and powerful effect on his body. The saddle bit painfully into his growing hardness. Why would she respond at all if she didn’t want to? There was no way he could have made her feel threatened. Myla could physically rip his limbs from his body without a damper of sweat lining her brow. She’d kissed him back because…she wanted to. That had to be why. Was it just curiosity, like the strawberries and salad greens? Or did she feel something for him? Something other than responsibility because of her honor-bound promise?
“’Lo to the envoy of King Balic!”
Words of ceremonial greeting plucked him from his ponderings. Nimon Luta rode astride a great ebony warhorse, a full platoon of armed men surrounding him. Barely over eighteen summers, the boy looked like a stiff wind from a fat cow could blow him away yet he had more arrogance than a rooster. Easy to be brave with the military backing he had accompanying him.
What was supposed to be a peace talk took on an ominous air. Taric turned his head and caught Bryton’s arched brow. So much for friendly displays of trust.
“’Lo to the company of Delmas Luta!” Bryton called loudly. “You little dog turd,” he muttered, settling back in his saddle.
Lips twisted to hide his laugh, Taric spurred Falcon ahead at a slow trot. Nimon rode forward and the two men met in the road. Taric had never liked the bowing that came with his position but somehow pasty-faced Nimon made the move seem a mockery more than a customary step of protocol. Too low for horseback and too grand for decency, the upswept arm and flourishing hand made Taric clench his teeth. Fine, be a shit and meet Prince Asshole. You want to make jabs, be prepared to take them.
His hand behind his back, he motioned with three fingers and three men including Bryton approached. Taric nodded his head to Nimon with forced regal snobbery and stiffened. “Your father chose not to greet me himself although he was well aware of my arrival? I shall assume he is frail and near death to insult my father so.”
“Frail? No, he—that is— Forgive us, Prince Taric, we meant no insult.” After faltering, Nimon’s beady eyes hardened. “Rest assured, Delmas Luta is hale and well able to defend what is his.”
“His by Balic’s grace,” Taric reminded him with chilling disdain. “But my father and I are always pleased to learn of the hearty health of those beneath us. Lead on, Luta the Younger. I have adult matters to discuss with your hale and healthy father.”
“We at Castle Claverham bid you welcome. I think you’ll find your stay with us most enlightening.” The oily gleam in the younger man’s eyes set Taric’s teeth on edge and he hung back among his men until all of Luta’s crew had turned.
“Bry, this doesn’t feel right.” Every instinct in his soul sang with caution. “Something is brewing here. We need to let Papa know.”
“I hear you and already did it,” Bryton murmured. “I sent Henic back with word of this…shit. It reeks like a chamber pot. I’m not playing games with turd boy or his father. If we don’t return in the allotted three days, all of Thistlemount’s forces will be here by nightfall on the fourth. Luta knows better than to provoke the king’s wrath.”
“Papa’s wrath isn’t my fear,” Taric whispered, edging Falcon forward. “It’s his tears. No amount of weaponry can raise the dead. This whole day smells of disaster in the making. It’s too risky. Hold your men outside the gates.”
Bryton’s eyes bugged and he reached for Falcon’s reins. “What? No! You’re not going in there alone. Balic’ll have my ass on a spit if you get one scratch, and you’re walking into a thorn bush. I’d rather just turn around and say ‘screw it’.”
The two mounts jostled for control, stirring up dust in a pale thick cloud. Taric whipped the leather from his friend’s hand.
“Calm your ass down and listen to me,” Taric spat. “We need this peace treaty. The southland border is too unstable. Luta lets whoever pays the most cross his land. I have to go and make him see reason, even if it costs more than my weight in gold. We stay one night, that’s all. But I want all the men outside the gate, Bry. All the men, except you. You go with me.”
“That makes no sense. You’re leaving yourself open to who knows what, with no one but me to watch your back. I’m good but I’m not that good. You might have only eleven men here but eleven are better than one.”
“Not in a tight spot. Think chess and strategy and plot it out. What we have are ten pawns, a rook and a bishop. But this bishop carries his own hidden queen. I’d pit the rook, bishop and almighty queen against any hale and hearty dog turd any day. Luta has something up his sleeve and I don’t want to be worried about him holding my men for collateral. You and I stick together and Myla never leaves me.”
“Yeah, well—” Bryton grudgingly accepted his orders but shot a steely glare at his prince, “—make sure your bishop is near this rook’s ass so the queen can cover us both with her magic skirt.”
Tensions raised, the half-platoon caught up to and followed Luta’s guards to the gate. Claverham stood as a reverse of Thistlemount in construction. Luta’s abode was dark and dreary, its outer walls neither whitewashed nor polished. The towers flanking the squat, square main hall stretched too high, too wide, like beefy arms jutting from a too-thin chest. Along the bailey wall, grizzled guards glared with contempt and shifted gleaming weapons to easier reach.
Taric sent his captain a measured glance and drew a fortifying breath. Bryton lifted his arm, gave the order to stand down and make camp outside the castle walls. Despite the uncertain looks, not one man balked at the strange command. Alone, Taric and Bryton clopped over the wooden bridge and rode beneath the spiny teeth of the portcullis.
Delmas Luta was as round as he was tall. His greasy bald head shone in the late afternoon sun, highlighting his fish-like eyes. Standing on the steps outside Claverham Castle, his skinny whelp of a son behind him, he ran fleshy fingers up and down his tunic front in greedy expectation.
Taric dismounted and took his time arranging the deep blue waist sash bearing the Crest of Eldwyn around the Segur family sword. His dress sword was more show than protection. The carved designs were ornamental but would not halt a forceful blade. Each beat of his heart had him scanning another nook and cranny of the courtyard. Unease skittered across his skin like lice, tickling and nibbling with gluttonous appetite.
Something is off. The blacksmith’s hut stood silent although smoke billowed to the sky. No noise came from the butcher’s shed and no women lingered about the well. The only visible presence were soldiers, everywhere, every one studying the two lone men. Too many soldiers for one small castle, and Taric noted the deep green of several military tunics. Suspicion bloomed like a blood red rose. Neither he nor Bryton removed their hand from their sword hilts, climbing the stairs side by side.
“Greetings, Prince Taric Segur of Eldwyn, welcome to Castle Claverham. I believe you are well acquainted with my other guest.” The wet, bald head nodded to the left and Taric’s blood thickened. “Emerto Marchen.”
Bryton leaned to the side a fraction and spoke without moving his lips. “Hey Tar, I think that move is called check.”
Chapter Three
“But not checkmate,” Taric whispered before smiling widely at the rotund host and his guest. “I know Emerto quite well. Good day, sir. How is Elora? The last correspondence we had was several weeks past.”
Tall and dark, with a thick swath of salt-and-peppered hair, his enemy grinned with serpentine eyes. A deep olive tunic fronted with gold swirls lent his gaze a mesmerizing glow. “My daughter is well. She asked that I relay her greetings to you. It seems you’ve been somewhat remiss in your attentions of late.”
&
nbsp; The inside of Taric’s lip spilled blood as he bit down but his smile never left his face. “Please extend my apologies. My father’s had a great deal of use for me lately and much of my own time is spoken for. It’s a pity she couldn’t accompany you here. I would have liked to…make her…acquaintance again. She is quite lovely.”
Marchen’s eyes narrowed and Taric allowed his lip to curl a bit more roguishly than was proper. Delmas made a grand production of leading the men inside a dark great hall. He was careful to not choose one over the other, seating one at his right and the other at his left when custom should have seated Taric in the center.
Bryton elected not to be seated at all, instead standing behind Taric, arms crossed, weapon at the ready. To him, wartime rules applied. Even here in this middle ground of disquieted truce, Bryton would not sup with the enemy.
The carved chair Taric shifted on creaked with age. Hunting dogs gnawed cracking bones and scratched fleas at one end of the great room while mice scurried at the other. A musty odor from the rotting rushes and stale bodies polluted the air and caused his nose to itch. The massive hearth was stained and filthy with ashes scraped to the side in a great pile. Elaborate but dingy tapestries hung heavily, in need of a good beating to brighten the vividly depicted scenes. Luta needed to dip into his protected coffers and spend some coin to preserve his keep before it lapsed into decay. He would rather store it, gathering it like a too-greedy squirrel hoards nuts for winter. But the excess would rot and the decay had already begun in this hall.
“I trust Balic is well.” Marchen’s cordiality cracked with thinly hidden disdain.
“Very. He remarried this past winter. I assure you, he’s quite in his prime.” Taric waved away a serving girl and leaned deeper into his chair, determined to uncover the reason for this surprise visit. “I’m astonished to find you so far north this time of the season, Emerto. Isn’t this a busy time for the Sotherby fleet?”
